The Echo of His Broken Heart
by Gameson221b
Summary: John took three steps to the kitchen door that opened onto the landing. He stopped, then turned and leaned back against it. Sliding to the floor, John pulled his knees to his chest. He didn't try to stop the tears that brimmed and overflowed, he just stared at the Sig still held within feeble fingers. He was alone now with only the echo of his broken heart.


"Sherlock!"

Deep within the stranglehold of his nightmare, John Watson bolted from the sofa. Chest heaving, heart racing, engulfed in panic-driven terror, the doctor stood in the dark, in a room he didn't recognize, with no immediate sense of arriving there.

Eventually, a small, soft glow introduced itself to him. He turned toward it, acknowledged it, let it guide him. Kitchen light. Sitting room. Baker Street. Once familiarity washed over him, his panic subsided, and soon after, his breathing and heart rate returned to near normal. Well, as near to normal as it ever got over the last several weeks.

A glance at his watch urged him toward the kitchen on unsteady legs. It was a bit past midnight. Stopping in front of the fridge, John marked off another day on the last of three calendar pages fastened there. Eighty-one days, twelve minutes. Sherlock would know it right down to the second. He tried to smile at the random thought, but his heart wasn't in it.

"My heart is with you, wherever you are, and it seems like you are a million miles away." His whispered words ended with a choked clearing of his throat. John leaned his forehead against the fridge, curling his arms around his head. "I miss you. Please be safe, Sherlock."

Once he calmed himself, John stepped toward the cupboard, to retrieve the tea. The sudden memory of Sherlock always teasing him about his belief that tea was the answer to every problem turned him away. Instead, he took a bottle of water from the refrigerator and leftovers from Angelo's that he hadn't wanted after it was delivered earlier in the day. Now the smell of it nearly made him heave, so he binned it, choosing toast and raspberry jam instead. John ate while standing at the counter, nibbling at the toast and stubbornly ignoring the pipettes, sample tubes, beakers and the microscope that sat abandoned on the table.

When John finally stopped giving the kettle filthy looks and took tea, it didn't make him feel better. One swallow was enough for him to tip it into the sink. This night, it felt wrong to drink it without Sherlock.

Padding silently to his old familiar chair, he stared down at it for a time, then took possession of Sherlock's leather chair. That didn't relieve the emptiness in his belly, but he curled up in it anyway, resting his head on the rear cushion. No longer able to keep the worry at bay, drained of energy, yet restless, John sat forward, elbows on knees, and pressed his face into his hands.

Two weeks into the mission, when there had been nothing but silence, he'd begun to worry that there was more involved than he'd been told. Now, when there were more days behind than ahead, his worry had only escalated until his world, and his sanity, frayed at the edges. He knew that ninety days was not firm, that it could be more or less, and that whatever Sherlock was engaged in, he would not return to London until it was done. That was Sherlock's method, but knowing that hadn't made the waiting any less unbearable.

The British Government, as both John and Sherlock referred to Mycroft, finally conceded to John's threat, however absurd, to report him to The Queen. Although the elder Holmes remained irritatingly silent on where his brother was, he phoned every few days to report that Sherlock was alive and well, no more, no less. John understood the need for secrecy, but he hated Mycroft for it, and everything else as well.

It was the unrelenting ache in his chest that reminded him of those two lost years. If it was hell when he thought Sherlock dead, the not knowing, the waiting, was just another kind of hell that hurt so much more. Every minute of every day he found himself holding his breath, waiting for word that Sherlock was dead...again.

"Sherlock," John whispered into the shadows. "Please come home."

Unable to sit still any longer, John built a small fire, retrieved his laptop from the sitting room table, and carried it back to Sherlock's chair.

He'd promised to keep a journal of his thoughts to share with Sherlock, but now, much like when he'd returned from the war, nothing happened to him. John kept his promise as best he could, detailing his outings, rare though they were, and anything else he could think of to conceal his anxiety and loneliness. His consulting detective painted his life in brilliant, vibrant hues; with him gone, it was colorless and bleak. In his head he could hear his former therapist's voice telling him it wasn't healthy to be so dependent on someone else for his happiness, but that's the way it was, and it worked for them.

With only the flickering firelight to illuminate the sitting room, and in his usual two-fingered hunt and peck, John began to compose his daily entry.

 _S,_

 _I don't know where you are at this moment. I just know where I am, here in your chair, feeling lost and alone without you, and I'm afraid, as always, for your safety, for your life._

 _Damn your brother. It's his fault you broke your promise to never leave me behind again. Of course I forgive you; you don't need to ask, but I will never forgive him._

 _I've never been very good at expressing my feelings, at least not until we became us and at this moment, "I love you with all that I am," seems not enough, but I do, love you, you know that._

 _I am terrified that - well, you know what terrifies me more than anything else. It's the one thing that terrifies you, too._

John sat back in the leather chair, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes to subdue the burning from lack of sleep until he couldn't see anything but blurred words. It was a long time before he could see clearly enough to continue, but he knew he had to get his thoughts out, even though Sherlock would never read them.

 _I can't pretend that everything here is okay, Sherlock. Not any more. I can't tell you about the stupid stuff either, the trips to Tesco, or my walks to Regent's Park. It's all so insignificant. The truth is, I spend my days worrying about you, hoping for another miracle and waiting for your brother to call so I know you've made it through another handful of days, but even when he does, it's doesn't change anything. I still worry. And it still hurts because you aren't here._

 _I know it can't be easy for you either, but you have your mind palace, and you're so good at shutting down your feelings. Would you help me build a mind palace of my own? Teach me how to shut -no, I don't want to shut down my feelings, I've just learned to share... I miss you._

 _I know, Sherlock, I'm whinging, but I can't help it. I can't sleep, I can't eat and some days I can't even think. I thought I could keep it all together, that I wouldn't fall apart again, but it doesn't look very promising from this side._

 _I think tomorrow I'll just delete this so you'll never see it. Yes, that's what I'll do, but for now, for this little bit of time, I need to at least pretend that you will see this and know that I'm missing you so much I ache with it._

 _Sherlock, if you don't come home, I won't survive this time. I don't want to...I can't live without you. So, please come home. Come back to me. I need you."_

 _Yeah, definitely. I will delete this tomorrow._

 _I miss you. I love you._

 _J_

His daily task completed, exhaustion finally took its toll. Curled up in Sherlock's chair, his laptop clutched against his chest, John drifted into a fitful slumber.

~0~

It was near dawn when John awoke to incessant pings reminding him he had disabled his voice mail in a fit of anger. In his dazed state, the reason escaped him. He left the laptop on the chair to search for his phone among the case files scattered over the sitting room table.

"Mycroft," John whispered upon seeing the caller ID. Unlike his brother, Mycroft preferred to call. Not good. Not good at all. With his heart stuck in his throat, and desperately fighting his escalating panic, John answered the call.

"Mycroft."

"Good morning, John. Did I wake you?"

"No, I haven't slept very much since you sent Sherlock on this stupid mission of yours." Lying came easily.

"I am sorry, John."

John snorted. "No, you're not, and you can skip the pleasantries."

To calm himself, but not let Mycroft know how relieved he was, at least for a few minutes, John let his silence bleed out until Mycroft spoke again.

"The mission is complete, John. My brother has departed his accommodations and is on his way to the train. His estimated time of arrival at Baker Street should be early this evening."

"Is he hurt?"

"Not that I am aware."

"Where is he that it will take him more than twelve hours to get home?"

"John-"

"I know, it's a matter of national security. Or is the term _classified,_ in which case you're playing CIA again."

"I never play, Dr. Watson."

John snorted. "Yes, you do."

"If this conversation continues, it will not end well for either of us, John. I will contact you when Sherlock is back in London."

"Why can't he-" John shouted into the phone. "Call me himself?" he murmured when he realised Mycroft had disconnected.

"I really hate you, Mycroft Holmes. Most of the time," John said through clenched teeth. Borrowing some of Sherlock's well-honed petulance, John called Sherlock's phone, knowing the call would go directly to voice mail. The urge to throw the phone against the smiley face on the far wall nearly overwhelmed him, but saner thoughts prevailed.

With Sherlock's return to look forward to, John's outlook brightened considerably, his energy level increasing tenfold. By midday, he had cleaned the flat, taken care of the laundry, changed the sheets on their bed, and generally tidied up. A run to Tesco to restock the fridge and a takeaway for himself brought him home just before one o'clock in a state of exhausted euphoria.

John spent the afternoon perusing the newspapers, tossing each aside when he found nothing to hold his interest. He prepared tea, nibbled at crisps and more than a few chocolate digestives, his thoughts as scattered as the newspapers on the floor around the table. He paced, pausing at each of the two windows for long moments in his path round the flat.

The waiting was interminable and as the minutes became hours, his anxiety soared again. Instinct warned him that something was not right. When the call came, John was in no mood for Mycroft.

"John."

"Is he in the city?"

"John, listen to me very carefully. Stay calm."

John gripped the phone so hard he was surprised it didn't disintegrate in his hand. "No, you said he was all right."

"John? Don't speak. Just listen."

"Is he alive?"

"John?"

" .alive?"

There was a long pause before Mycroft sighed. "Sherlock got on the train as scheduled. Somewhere between there and London, he disappeared."

"Disappeared? You lost him?"

"It was more, he lost us. Our operatives were, as the Americans say, _on his six_ , but Sherlock evaded them and exited the train."

"So, you lost him? You, the man who pretty much runs the British Government, lost Sherlock Holmes. Your brother."

"John, stay calm."

"This is as calm as I get until Sherlock is home safe, Mycroft. You utter prat. You idiot. You lost the most important man-" John stopped to calm himself. When he continued, it was through clenched teeth and a barely controlled voice dripping with invective.

"You lost him."

"John, please listen. There is a possibility that Sherlock was followed by someone he recognised, but who was unknown to us. If so, he may well have gone underground and is making his way to you."

"So you need me to stay here and wait? For how long, Mycroft? Are you doing anything to find him?"

"I have everyone at my disposal searching for him at this very moment. I promise you we will find him. We will find Sherlock."

"But will he be alive?" John said in a broken whisper.

"Is Mrs. Hudson at home?"

"No, she's away. Why?"

"Turn off the lights, John, and lock the doors. Keep your gun at the ready. A security detail will be at 221B momentarily."

Mycroft droned on, but the doctor shut him out. John shook his head, remembering the first time Mycroft had kidnapped him and the interrogation that followed. He wasn't frightened by the man then, and he wasn't now. His hand did not shake then, but now his entire body trembled with his rage.

Sherlock was a wily, shrewd, clever, sharp-witted, astute, and smart adversary, god, he sounded like a love-struck teenager with a thesaurus, but there was always that small chance that one day the world's only consulting detective would be too clever and get himself into a situation from which there was no escape. That was the second thing, tightly connected to the first, losing Sherlock, that terrified him the most.

"John?"

John didn't know how many times Mycroft had said his name before he heard him over the noise in his head. Drawing in a calming breath, which he maintained until he felt confident enough not to shout, he held the phone away from his ear.

"Don't call again, Mycroft. Just send a text when you have news. I don't want to hear your voice, preferably for the rest of my life." Even as he finished his rant, John knew Mycroft would delete every word he'd said.

"John?"

Mycroft's voice barely reached him. John didn't answer.

~0~

John prowled the flat with only the light that filtered in from the streetlamps. From the moment he'd disconnected Mycroft, the low in his belly trembling had taken hold, and slowly radiated upward. Struggling to control his fear only aggravated his exhaustion, but he needed to stay awake, needed to wait for Sherlock.

"Have to stay awake," John whispered into the dark. "Be on watch. Wait for Sherlock. He's coming home. He's not going to be dead again."

Tucking his Sig into the waistband at his back, John silently descended the steps to the downstairs hallway where he checked Mrs. Hudson's door for the third time. Locked. The front door was locked as well.

As John returned to the second floor, he closed and secured both doors. He moved cautiously, on full alert for any uncommon sound. Knowing he wouldn't see anyone in the shadows along Baker Street if he were to risk a look, he avoided the windows, hoping Mycroft's people were already in place, but that bit of knowledge did little to ease his mind. Setting his phone on vibrate, John slipped it into his trouser pocket and continued his silent vigil.

At nine, Mycroft texted: no status change _._

John's heart plummeted; his anxiety, which had eased somewhat while he busied himself securing the flat, seated itself deep inside him as a constant trembling. With all his senses heightened, adrenaline was the only thing keeping his head clear and alert.

At ten, the text from Mycroft was no different. There was no sign of Sherlock.

John paced.

At eleven, there was only silence. No text, and John's anxiety intensified once again. He didn't think it could get any higher without causing some kind of emotional response. Maybe a fist through the smiley face on the wall.

Just before midnight, Mycroft's text offered no relief. Five minutes later, another text startled John.

 _No word, John. We are continuing the search._

With his anger now partnered with dread, John responded with scarcely a thought.

 _He didn't respond to my text._

 _I have his personal phone, John. Sherlock has an untraceable phone programmed with access only to me._

 _He's not using that either, is he, Mycroft?_

It was a long, tense few minutes before Mycroft's text simply said: ' _No.'_

 _So, he's out there, alone, maybe hurt, and if he's lost his phone or it's been taken away from him, he has no way of getting help._

 _John, speculating is not advantageous at this point. My brother is most likely in one of his bolt holes until it is safe to return._

 _That information doesn't help, there are dozens of places he could be, including...I don't want to think of the other places he could be._

When there was no further response from Mycroft, John pocketed the phone. Dropping into a kitchen chair, he stared toward the window at the far end of the room.

"Where are you, Sherlock?"

Weary and worn, John leaned over the table, resting his head on his arms. The doctor was still there when his phone pinged just after two o'clock.

"John."

"What?"

"Sherlock's phone was found at Battersea Park Rail Station by one of his network people. I received the call just minutes ago. This person did not find Sherlock."

John heard the disdain dripping from Mycroft's words at the mention of Sherlock's Homeless Network. There was nothing more he wanted to say. Bleary eyed, his heart longing for-

"John."

"I don't want to talk to you, but you're the only one who can keep me informed."

"Your anger is understandable, John."

"You-" John squeezed his eyes shut, slowly shaking his head. "You have no idea."

"I assure you, Doctor, we are doing everything possible to find him. He is, after all, my brother."

John had no further response. His jaw ached from clenching his teeth to avoid saying something he'd regret. It was too much effort to speak again, so he disconnected the call and dropped the phone into an empty beaker.

"Sherlock." John moaned with barely a breath.

Pushing his chair back, and struggling to stand on shaky legs, he closed his eyes to allow all the pain to come rushing back. For two years he'd grieved and now he had to do it all over again.

"Is it too much to ask that Sherlock cheat death a second time? How can I ask for another miracle? Most people never get even one," John said to the empty room. The room didn't answer.

Sig in hand, John took three steps to the kitchen door that opened onto the landing. He stopped, hand on the knob, then turned and leaned back against it. Sliding to the floor, John pulled his knees to his chest. He didn't try to stop the tears that brimmed and overflowed, he just stared at the gun still held within feeble fingers. He was alone now with only the echo of his broken heart.

~0~

There wasn't a lock in London that Sherlock Holmes couldn't pick in seconds, but the key he alone knew was secreted behind a loose brick was all he needed to enter Mrs. Hudson's flat from the rear. The key turned with a soft click. Pushing the door only so far to avoid the squeak of its hinges, he stepped inside, securing the door behind him.

A cursory glance confirmed his landlady's absence as he quickly moved through the dark rooms to the flat's front door. Slipping out into the hallway that was the Baker Street entrance, Sherlock silently ascended the seventeen steps to the second floor. As he'd encountered upon entering Mrs. Hudson's flat, all was dark. Even the small light above the cooker, which John always kept on, was oddly turned off.

It was unnaturally quiet as Sherlock made his way to the bedroom that he and John shared. The bed was undisturbed; John had not slept there. With great care, Sherlock retraced his steps to the sitting room where he found the doctor's laptop, his last journal entry still on the screen. Reading it gave him more insight into John's state of mind this last day.

The sofa, with a pillow and blankets folded neatly at one end, mocked the undisturbed bed. It also worried the detective. There was only one thing that terrified John Watson.

He hadn't considered...again. And even as he tried to convince himself that he'd had no choice, he knew it was a lie. He could have said no to Mycroft, he should have said no. John would eventually accept his apologies once the anger passed and the cursing and name calling ended in silence. Sherlock estimated two to three days, grimacing at the possibility of another bloody nose, a split lip, or both.

Guilt constricted his chest until he could barely breathe. He didn't regret going underground when he'd discovered he'd been followed, only that he couldn't contact John to let him know he was all right. His brother was ultimately responsible for the mission and it was his idea to leave his phone behind. Only after he'd left London had he realized that the phone he'd been given would only reach Mycroft. The deep cover of the mission precluded obtaining another.

"Mycroft," he whispered as though it were an epithet. He slipped off his jacket, the most despised piece of his disguise, and his trainers and socks. Wearing only jeans and a white T-shirt, Sherlock stood behind John's chair for a moment before stepping into the kitchen.

Using his pocket torch, Sherlock swept the room with keen eyes, his gaze immediately coming to rest on a John-shaped shadow huddled on the floor just inside the landing entrance to the kitchen.

Sherlock dropped to his knees beside his doctor's still form. Unfolding John's fingers from around the Sig, he slid the weapon across the room. Laying the torch against the door threw just enough light to see John's face, but it was his vacant eyes that held Sherlock's attention, and broke his heart.

"John," he whispered.

Pressing his fingertips against John's neck, Sherlock found a strong and steady heartbeat before allowing himself to breathe again.

Gently rolling John onto his back, Sherlock straddled him, and with his arms beneath John's shoulders, cradled the doctor's fair head in his two hands.

"I'm here."

John stared past him, at what, if anything, Sherlock couldn't discern.

"John, can you hear me?"

The intermittent fluttering of panic in Sherlock's belly struck when John didn't respond. It was as if John had simply gone away.

"John?"

As unusual as his position was, Sherlock ignored the discomfort of knees against lino to stay as close as possible. Gazing at the beautiful face he loved more than his own life, he began to talk to John in soft, dulcet tones.

"I'm sorry, John, once again. I'm sorry I let Mycroft talk me into this mission. It was a mistake in so many ways, not the least of which was that it hurt you."

Sherlock leaned in to nuzzle John's ear and to press small kisses along his jaw.

"That night I took you to Angelo's I had Mycroft clone your laptop, John. He disabled the camera alert so that while I was away I could keep an eye on you. I read all your journal entries, every word. My heart broke each time I saw your face as you typed, the way the tip of your tongue caught between your lips while you searched for just the right word. I watched you every night when I got back to my hotel. Mycroft installed surveillance everywhere in our flat so I knew how you were fairing. Always, I was afraid, John. Afraid that...what happened when I was away the last time would happen again. I was so afraid for you."

Sherlock paused then, to gaze with wonder at the small man he cocooned with his own body. He hadn't intended to tell John everything until later, but getting through to John by any means necessary was his first concern.

"I read your letter, before I found you here. John, I want you to be as angry with me as you need to be. You can punch me and hate me for what I've done. It will still be less than I hate myself, but please, don't shut me out. Please don't leave me. I love you, John, and I need you. We need each other."

Sherlock pressed his tear-stained cheek against John's, his breathing ragged with the effort to control his emotions.

"I'm babbling, John. I was wrong, I don't want you to hate me. Just punch me and get it over with."

When his doctor remained unresponsive, Sherlock covered John's mouth with his own. He feared it was the last kiss he'd get from John for a long time.

"Please don't hate me, John," Sherlock pleaded, his voice breaking. "Come back."

Without a sound or a warning, John's arms slowly rose to circle Sherlock's head, his sturdy fingers holding firm to the riot of his dark curls.

"Sherlock?" John whispered against Sherlock's mouth.

"Right here, John."

"I thought...you...were-"

"No, I'm okay. I'm home now."

"You watched me?"

"Yes, John. You heard me telling you everything?"

"Yes, you read my letter to you...the last one?"

"I did. After I read it, I regretted causing you to hurt like that again."

"You were followed?"

Sherlock smiled at the abrupt change of subject. "Unfortunately." Resting his forehead against John's, he was relieved to be in the safety of John's arms.

"I was wrong to think it was finished. In my haste to return to London, I was careless. The moment I checked out of my hotel I suspected I was being followed. I knew for certain once I was on the train, so I managed to escape unseen. As much as I detest your prefered mode of transportation, I rode the tube into the city and contacted Bill Wiggins to help me disappear. I spent most of that missing time with my Network."

"Sherlock," John whispered, his fingertips tapping the detective's lips. "No more."

Sherlock pulled back enough to see John's face just before the torch dimmed, and a moment later, went out. "All right. Later. When you're ready."

"Tomorrow."

"Yes, John, tomorrow."

When Sherlock tried to sit back, John tightened his arms around his head, his small body trembling.

"No, Sherlock, not yet. I need-"

"It's all right. Whatever you need, John."

Sherlock wasn't certain how long they held on to each other in the darkness, but it was a precious length of time he didn't want to end.

"You can't be comfortable, Sherlock. We need to get off the floor."

"I think my legs are asleep."

John huffed an attempt at laughter.

Sherlock chuckled, dropping his mouth to John's for another hello kiss.

"I've missed you desperately, John."

"I've missed you, too," John whispered, choking on his words.

With much grunting and giggling and ow-ing, they helped each other to their feet. Sherlock immediately wrapped his arms around John, touching foreheads and noses, his pale eyes probing deep into wide, midnight blue ones.

"John, are you angry with me? Are you going to punch me as you did the last time? If you are-"

"Shut up."

Sherlock's grinned. "Yes, John."

By the soft light from the streetlamps beyond the windows, Sherlock, holding fast to John's hand, followed willingly through the sitting room to the sofa.

"Sit." John ordered.

"Yes, my Captain."

"Hush," John whispered so softly that Sherlock nearly missed it.

"John? Where are you going?"

"Shh."

Sherlock heard the sound of glass bumping glass from the kitchen and then the shushing of John's socked feet as he detoured to close the laptop and returned to the sofa. The detective welcomed the doctor when he straddled his hips and sat on his thighs.

"John?"

Sherlock recognised the feel of John's phone pressed into his hand.

"Tell your brother to turn off all his surveillance cameras including the ones with night vision. He can keep his people on watch outside, but that's all."

"All right."

"Tell him he has ten minutes to do so and if I find out he hasn't, and I will find out, I will make a scene, again, the next time I visit the Diogenes Club. And I really will report him to the Queen."

Sherlock didn't respond, he just produced his mad genius grin as he called his brother.

"Mycroft, I'm hooooommmme."

Sherlock activated the speaker so John could hear.

"Yes, Sherlock, I am well aware. You were seen picking the lock on Mrs. Hudson's kitchen door."

"On the contrary, my dear brother, I have a key."

After a long pause, which Sherlock enjoyed almost much as John, Mycroft cleared his throat.

"Yes, well, be that as it may, do I need to ask a reason for your call, or are you just indulging your fondness for escalating our so-called sibling rivalry?"

"John and I have been apart, no thanks to you, for eighty-eight, no, eighty-nine days, and we would like our privacy. Would you mind shutting down your surveillance? All of it? Audio, video and John's laptop camera, as well?"

After another long pause, and muffled voices, Mycroft returned to the phone.

"Done, Sherlock, however, the security detail will remain until those following you have been apprehended."

"Very well, Mycroft."

"And Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Be aware. Protect yourselves."

Sherlock softened. "Yes, Mycroft, we will."

"Goodnight, John. Sherlock, welcome back."

There was another short pause before the call was disconnected.

Sherlock stared at John for a moment, then tapped in a number.

"Mycroft?"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"Thank you."

"Yes, thank you, Mycroft," John said.

"You're welcome. Get some sleep. I'll see you tomorrow to debrief."

Both John and Sherlock giggled.

"Yes, well, goodnight again," Mycroft said in his usual nose-in-the-air tone.

"I think we annoyed him, my love."

"Yes, I do so like to annoy my insufferable, pompous, tedious and hateful older brother."

"Well, that was a mouthful."

"And only marginally truthful, I am chagrined to admit."

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, my adorable doctor?"

John raised an eyebrow and tipped his head to the side.

"It's me you're speaking to, you can use little words."

"John," Sherlock said, using his most sincere voice. "I'm not amused when you speak less of yourself."

Tenderly holding Sherlock close, John rested his head on the detective's shoulder.

"I'm not. Big words are great and important, but little words often have more meaning, especially when they're from you and it's just me you're speaking to."

"There is no _just_ where you are concerned."

Sherlock's swaddled John within his strong arms. He sighed, long and soft, and intimate. His doctor responded in kind, nuzzling into Sherlock's neck.

"So," Sherlock began, then paused.

John tipped his head back to look at him. "Sherlock, no, I am not going to punch you."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome," John murmured against Sherlock's neck, then giggled.

"I love you, John."

"I love you, too...Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"I know you're exhausted-"

"As are you."

"And hungry."

"Yes?"

"And, we are both in need of a bath."

"Indeed."

"And it's almost dawn."

"For heaven's sake, John, do get on with it."

John giggled again.

"Can we cuddle here on the sofa for a bit longer?"

Sherlock grasped long fingers over John's shoulders and eased him away so that he could look upon the doctor's much loved face. John's eyes widened, his features softening the longer Sherlock held his gaze.

"It would be my pleasure to cuddle with you," Sherlock whispered, framing John's face with his hands. John's eyes fluttered shut as the detective captured his mouth. Tipping to the side, Sherlock quickly manoeuvred their bodies so that John was tucked to the back of the sofa, enveloped in his embrace.

"I am most willing to disregard your odoriferous emanations for a time to delight in the pleasure of your proximity. Would you do that for me?"

"Oh, God, Sherlock," John said, choking on his laughter. "Take pity on me and use little words. My brain is barely functioning."

"Nonsense."

"No, really, Sherlock."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, very well, John. I will overlook your bodily stench in order to snuggle and cuddle with you."

John snorted. "Well, I like your stench, Sherlock. It makes me all warm and squishy inside."

"You are an extraordinary man, John Watson. Thank you."

"No, thank you."

Sherlock sighed, smiling gently at the man before him.

"Sometimes, you seem so small, so fragile, and though I know you are neither of those things, I still wish I could tuck you inside my heart to keep you safe."

"I wouldn't mind if that were possible, but if it were possible then I couldn't protect you, so it would have to be an every now and then kind of thing."

John eased himself over Sherlock, palms down on his chest, and rested his chin on his hands. Sherlock feathered his thumbs over John's cheekbones.

"They aren't as-"

"Don't, John. You are beautiful to me."

"Have you had your eyes examined lately?"

"Don't. I see you with my heart first, John. My heart believes you're beautiful, and there is nothing wrong with my eyesight."

The doctor's eyes widened, brimmed and overflowed, but Sherlock wouldn't allow him to turn away. He held John's face between gentle hands, swiping away his tears with the soft pads of his thumbs.

"I love you, you know, and I am sorry that I've hurt you again."

"That's all over and done, Sherlock. I don't want to think about that. You're safe. This, right here is all that matters."

"If you're sure you don't want to punch me-"

When John's eyes brimmed again, and he shook his head, Sherlock gathered the doctor to himself, tucking his silky head beneath his chin. For a time Sherlock was silent, content just to be close. Tenderly feathering the soft hair at John's nape elicited an elongated sigh that made the detective smile. He kissed the top of John's head, then settled down for some serious cuddling.

~0~

When Sherlock quieted, John wriggled against him as if he wasn't quite close enough. The detective groaned, drawing in a deep breath and tightening his arms around him.

"Nice," John whispered.

"Yes."

John heard something in Sherlock's voice that wasn't just right. "But?"

"If you intend to continue cuddling only-"

"Oh. Sorry."

"Don't be sorry, John."

"If you want to-"

"No, John. I don't think I have the energy at the moment."

"Nor I."

"Snuggling and cuddling, then, Dr. Watson."

"Sounds about right to me."

"Then come here," Sherlock demanded with a deep-throated chuckle as he tipped John's head back down to steal his lips.

"And kissing, too," John croaked out once he caught his breath. "Do that again?"

Sherlock obeyed. Three more times. And every time thereafter.


End file.
